


The Girl in the Television

by Lovelettes



Series: Generation's Metronome [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovelettes/pseuds/Lovelettes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You stare at the computer monitor in nothing short of mystification, finding yourself wondering what sort of rift in time and space your brother had caused and how.</em>
</p><p>In which a young man meets an even younger lady by happenstance and a little bit of unexplained hocuspocus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl in the Television

**Author's Note:**

> If you're a Doctor Who fan, then the plot will be familiar, and you'll know what's coming. If you're not, you can still enjoy it. It's not a necessary thing.
> 
> Also, I probably didn't catch all of my mistakes. Lazy editor right here.

**_> 2003_ **  
**_( >1923)_ **

You stare at the computer monitor in nothing short of mystification, finding yourself wondering what sort of rift in time and space your brother had caused and how.

Because there was no _way_ this was possible. Absolutely _not_.

You tear your eyes away from the screen and promptly look at Dave. Dave, your brother and a quiet child of eight, sits on the couch watching television, unaware of your gaze. He idly fondles the remote, turning it over in his hands in an offbeat rhythm.

And that's Dave. Offbeat. Strange. A kind of weirdness magnet or, perhaps more accurately, a conduit. Everything preternatural and alien revolves around him in some way. You figure it comes with the territory of being a meteor baby. The television scrambles, the radio tunes into broadcasts years from now

( _“Good morning, Austin! It's April thirteenth and it's an especially hot one here today! The sun is high in the sky, and the heat is crashing down in waves. On a national level, reports of meteor sightings in Washington have been coming in. Meteorologists are befuddled by these reports. More information will be given as it is released...”_ )

the date on your computer changes, clocks move forward and back and occasionally stop all together.

And now Skype is picking up an image of a girl in the 1920s. Yes, the twenties. Has to be. You take pride in your extensive knowledge of history; you would go as far as to say that you are something of an expert.

You're not, however, an expert in the inner workings of time and space, but you're pretty sure that you're not suppose to be seeing a girl from eras past on your computer monitor.

She is older than your brother but considerably younger than yourself. Her hair is black, short, and well-kept. Perfectly circular glasses rest on her nose, hiding her eyes with the reflection of the primitive device that sits before her. She rests on her knees, a thick book with a broken spine and tattered pages lay in front of her. Papers are scattered, and her mien has an intense look of concentration that has you feeling more than a little curious.

She doesn't notice you. You almost didn't notice her.

You clear your throat to capture her attention. “Ahem.”

_What am I doing?_

The girl jerks in surprise, back straightening with a militarist's discipline. She blinks rapidly as she makes eye contact with you, and as if she doesn't believe what she is seeing (which, to be perfectly honest, is highly likely), her gaze darts about the room.

But then she looks at you again and cautiously asks, “What...what are you doing in my box?” Her words are careful and enunciated. Her voice is laden with skepticism.

“Box? You mean like a television? Do you even have those?”

Obviously it's not a computer. The décor of the living room is too precise to be a recreation of a 1920s parlor, and her attire appears authentic. But a television? That was a stretch. The first broadcast was made in 1928, if memory serves correct.

“It's a patent for something called a television. That's what Mother says. It's suppose to be some box that shows moving pictures like in the cinemas, but...” She tilts her head to the side. “...I...I don't believe it's suppose to be doing this.” Her eyes narrow. They're naturally wide but somehow lacking in childish innocence. “Who are you? How is this possible?” Her eyes scan over you, biting her lip. “You look funny.”

“So do you.”

“What's up with your eye wear there?”

“They're cool.”

“How are you talking to me?”

“How old are you?” you ask, ignoring her question simply because you have no explanation. Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches, go with the flow, embrace the odd.

And with Dave, things are always odd.

“Thirteen.” She doesn't miss a beat. “Who are you?”

“Shouldn't be associatin' with me, then. People will talk.”

Her eyes shift towards the doorway behind her. “That's all people do, hm? Talk.” She looks at you again. “Don't they, mister?”

You mistake the pause in her voice as an invitation to introduce yourself. You realize your error after the words have escaped. “Strider—ah, I mean Dirk. Dirk Strider. That's what I meant to say.”

You chance another backward glance at Dave. He hasn't looked up or commented, being too absorbed in the monotony of flicking the buttons of the remote. It's likely that he _has_ taken note of your voice and your words

( _“Pay attention, Dave. Watch what I do. Listen to me. Understand what I'm saying. Feel what I'm saying.”_ )

but has deciphered them and came to the conclusion that this doesn't concern him. You feel a little proud of him for having the common sense to stay out of your business. You've taught him well.

“Hello, Mister Strider. I'm Jane.” She's unmoving. “Why are you on my television?”

You keep putting off answering her. What could you possibly say? That you were from the future and that your younger brother has a strange affliction that causes weird things like this to happen constantly?

So you ask her a question to distract her. “Does Miss Jane have a last name?”

_Who are you?_

Her shoulders square, mouth tightening and thinning into a perfectly straight line. “Croc...ker.” There's a small sigh at the end.

“Crocker, huh? Like Betty Crocker?”

“Yes. She's...ah...my 'mother.'” Jane's tone is filled to the brim with disdain. “My adoptive mother. You know her, then?”

“Yeah,” you say, befuddled.

That explains her possession of a television patent. You presume that a rising star like Betty Crocker would have access to a prototype of a television. But isn't Betty Crocker just a figurehead created by General Mills to up their cake mix sales? A perfect, all-American, nonexistent housewife?

( _“You sweet-talker—Betty Crocker!”_ )

Sure, there are rumors all over the Internet that Crocker was actually a real person that existed at some point in time, but that information comes from the _Internet_. This is the same place where you came across the theory that she was an evil alien overlord with gills and hair that Rapunzel would envy.

“Yeah, a lot of people know her.”

Jane scoffs. “Doesn't surprise me a bit.” She rubs the bridge of her nose, glasses clacking against the faux pearls wrapped around her wrist. “So, why are you... You know what? I don't have time for this right now. Mother will be home in a few hours, and here I am without a cake or batch of brownies.”

“What, are you required to have something hot on the table when she gets home?”

She sighs deeply, shoulders dropping considerably. “I faked an illness this morning just so I could stay home. But she knew. She _always_ knows. I'm suppose to bake something _amazing_ in exchange for a few more hours of sleep. I better hop to it.”

Jane starts to stand, but you call her name, too bemused and intrigued to let her go. “Wait. Jane, wait.”

She pauses and lifts an eyebrow. “Yes?”

You fumble with the words; you've temporarily forgotten to keep up the act of the cool, enigmatic stranger. “I'm sorry. I, uh, I forget. What—what year is it now?”

“Nineteen twenty-three of course.” She eyes you cautiously. “Is it not where you're from?”

You contemplate lying to her outright, but there's too much evidence surrounding you to pull it off effectively. You say, “No. No, it's not.”

You begin holding your breath subconsciously.

Jane stares for a second longer, skepticism blatantly written across her countenance. She shifts back in front of her television, knees pointed towards you, eyebrows drawn together.

“I'm dreaming,” Jane says, voice stern and resolute. “I really am feverish, and this is just a strange dream. You're not real, Mister Strider.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I am,” you say, and you smile just a bit cruelly. “Why don't you go and turn on the oven and forget to use your oven mitts? Betcha anything that there'll be a burn there.” The words sound harsh now that they're out in the air.

An indignant noise emerges from the back of her throat. “I don't have to take _your_ abuse.”

You raise a brow just as the metaphorical red flags raise. You fold your arms. “And whose abuse _do_ you take?”

“I said nothing of the sort—”

“It was implied.”

“I'm _not_ —”

“Is it dear, sweet Mother?”

“Shut _up_.”

 _Gotcha,_ you think, suppressing a self-satisfied smirk. You can't help it. You're right, and you almost get off on being right.

( _“Big bro is always right, Dave.”_ )

There's anger on Jane's face. “You're...awful, you know that? What sort of person is _happy_ to hear something like that? Who acts like this? On purpose, at that!”

Your smirk slides from your lips, smugness promptly falling away. You feel a pinprick of guilt. Okay, maybe that was a tad on the asshole end of the social spectrum. She _is_ just a kid, after all.

A kid from the 1920s.

You look back at Dave again and frown. Kid has no idea what he is inciting.

_Kid._

Dave is a kid too—younger, even. You treat him just the same, and you are a perfectly good brother. Right? He never complains, does he now? There's nothing wrong with the way you treat him, is there?

You would say no, but then you look at Jane again.

There are angry tears in the corners of her eyes, the liquid partially hidden by the glint of her glasses. It sends you into a panic. It sends you into that same panic that Dave sends you into when you accidentally nick him during your strifing sessions.

And suddenly, you're rethinking your parenting methods.

Your voice raises in volume and pitch. Your words come fast. “Wait a second. Look. I'm sorry. I'm a dick, I know, and I'm sorry. It ain't my business, and I was just being a smug asshole again. Pretty bad habit of mine now that I think about it.”

She shakes her head violently, swiping at her eyes. Her nimble fingers slip her glasses from their resting place, and the sheer brilliance of her turquoise eyes will haunt you for years to come.

“No, no. I'm sorry. I just...I'm under a little stress right now.” Her voice is lacking the careful control she previously held. “A lot has happened, and I...”

You shake your head. “No. _No._ I was an ass, and you had every right to snap at me. I'm the asshole here, okay? I was stickin' my nose where it doesn't belong. Your business, not mine.”

There's nothing but a soft sob in reply. You cringe visibly. It's too much for you to handle.

You lean forward, voice softening, and say, “But I have two ears that work.”

Jane attempts to meet your eyes, and even with your shades obstructing raw contact, you feel her gaze penetrate the tinted glass. There's a particular intensity about her that catches you off-guard, forces a certain respect to the surface, and makes something deep in your stomach twist. You can't explain it. You can't explain any of this.

So you listen to her speak in that smooth and careful voice of hers, listening to her tell the story of her adoption, her love for a man she views as a father, the brother that left her, and the woman she dreams of defying.

There's no explanation for this incident, no way to break down the mechanics of time. You've given up on solving the puzzle, and Jane has given up trying to get the answer from you. Surprisingly, you're okay with this change of events.

Two hours pass. Two hours of getting to know a strange girl from the Roarin' Twenties. You find that Jane is a skeptical person (which you suspected), enjoys baking to a certain extent, is as smart as a whip, and has a great love for tricks and mischief.

You talk about your job as a disc jockey, the music you create, and your guilty pleasure—sewing. You tell her about Dave and how proud you are of him. It catches his attention briefly

( _“Bro, who are you talking to?”_ )

and causes the tips of his ears to burn slightly. You don't tell him that very often.

( _“A friend.”_ )

Your casual praise is cut short by the slamming of a door on her end.

Jane looks at you for a brief moment, panic gleaming in her eyes. She reins her fear in, hiding it away behind a stony expression.

“Oh, _Jane_! Wher _ever_ could my _heiress_ be?”

It dissipates in an instant.

Her goodbye is hurried, and the words “see ya” barely make it past your lips before you're sitting there watching her rush away.

Your computer chair creaks in protest as you lean back. You remove your shades briefly, rubbing at your eyes with sudden exhaustion. You roll your shoulders, stretch your legs out, and release a sudden yawn.

You need sleep. Even if it's only four in the afternoon.

 

**_> 2003_ **  
**_( >1929)_ **

The next day, you log onto Skype early in the morning and find that the connection is no longer there. It frustrates you to the point where you have to walk away from the computer before you break the keyboard with your key mashing.

It's riling—making a connection with someone and losing them in a blink. You haven't had a good run of luck with relationships, friendly or otherwise. Excluding Dave, you don't believe you've ever spoken that openly with someone before, and even with him, you haven't shared that much.

Of course this whole situation makes you feel vaguely predatory, like Chris Hanson is about to knock down your door and ask you take a seat right over there, but you've always had loose morals about these sorts of things. Besides, Jane is a friend.

Was a friend.

You decide to go back to bed, sleep the day away, forget about everything for awhile. Feel numb for a little bit, wake up, take a shower, and move on with your life.

You pass by the monitor with barely a glimpse, too angry with the universe to spare a blameless computer a moment's worth of recognition.

A glimpse, however, is enough.

The esoteric program is open, and there's movement on the screen that catches your eye and draws you to the computer, slowly so, as if it has cast an unbreakable enchantment on you.

And who says you want you break it?

There's a woman on the screen, moving about a sitting room, shifting furniture, scouring the bookshelf in the corner, performing such _mundane_ tasks that are just so beautifully human.

It's Jane. It's _Jane_.

It's Jane, and she's older, and you're unsure of how to feel about it.

_But I...I only switched the window for a few minutes..._

You glance back at Dave again and find him in the same position he was in earlier, completely unaware of what he is doing and how is doing it. You stare at him intently for a moment, and your gaze is so intense that he hunches his shoulders just a bit. He shows little other reaction, so you opt to leave him be and turn your attention back to the screen.

An apron—red and black and too decorated to be causal—is tied securely around her frame, a black dress peeking from beneath, a string of pearls carefully tucked under. Her hair is as short and as dark as ever, skin milky white, cheeks fuller. Her glasses are still perfectly round, eyes behind the lenses just the same only with a more prevalent hint of sadness. Her lips are painted a severe red that pales her pink-tinted cheeks.

She doesn't notice you at first, so you clear your throat in the same manner as the first time.

Jane stops dead in her tracks, eyes slowly dragging across the room to the screen. A quiet gasp escapes her lips, and suddenly she's hastily ripping off her apron and falling to her knees. Her eyes are transfixed on yours, and for a moment, you wonder if your shades have fallen off.

“Mister...Strider...” she says, voice hushed and almost thrilled, almost terrified.

You're unable to keep a stoic face. You feel the corners of your mouth lift slightly. “Jane.”

There's excitement etched into her features. It's the same excitement you're feeling, the same excitement that you simply cannot explain.

She laughs, and it's short and breathy. She's in the same disbelieving stupor that you're in. Her words are stuttered and broken. “I, I can't believe—you're...!”

You don't have much luck with coherency either. “And you're...different and older and...”

You settle for staring at her, and she settles for staring back.

A perfect tension stretches the silence, and twin grins shatter it. Adrenaline pumps through you in a fast rhythm, surging through your veins in perfect harmony with your heart.

You talk for hours, listening to her talk about the six years that you missed, an entire day's productivity down the drain. You waste every minute with her, although it never once feels like a waste.

It's late before you know it, and you're both tired but too jittery to sleep. Admittedly, you're wary of going to bed, afraid that she won't be there in the morning. Jane comforts you, tells you that you'll see her again sometime even though she has no idea when.

You're only mildly okay with that. If this keeps up, then it's a few hours of sleep before you see her again; however, for her, it's _years_ . It's terribly unfair to her, but Jane assures you that she's okay, that she has a life outside of chatting with you. That's something that, honestly, never occurred to you even once during your day, and for a moment, jealousy stabs at you.

You berate yourself for being ridiculous, for being such a short-sighted fool. Of course she had a life. Of course she had friends, colleagues, and lovers. She wasn't like you. She didn't have the same impenetrable wall surrounding her. She let people in like she let you in. Like you let her in.

You bid her goodnight, and it's as hurried as her last goodbye. You're angry with yourself, and a little angry with her.

But you miss her already.

 

**_> 2003_ **  
**_( >1942)_ **

Your conversations with her are scattered. Each day brings a different year for her, a different age difference. You've made contact with Jane a total of six times now.

No one has ever known you so well; you have never felt so strongly about one person. It's thrilling and strange and new.

Today is nothing special for you, but for Jane, it's one of the biggest days of her life.

She's wearing all white, the inky color of her hair starkly contrasting against it. Her cheeks are pink and healthy, and you notice that she's put on a few pounds. It has done nothing but improve her appearance, you think. She has an abundance of curves that fill out the lace material of her dress wonderfully. You notice that her glasses have changed: they're ovular, more mature and narrow, mirroring her eyes.

 _She's gorgeous,_ you think, as if seeing her for the first time, as if it has never occurred to you before.

You feel a faint heat rise to your face.

“Mr. Egbert is a good man, Dirk.” She's glowing. You feel your stomach turn in a bout of jealousy. “I love him.”

“As long as he treats you right,” you say. You give her a wry smile. “I guess you don't have any ties left to dear old mum now, huh, Mrs. _Egbert_?”

A blush blossoms on her cheeks, and a cherry sweet smile graces her lips. “I really like the sound of that. Of both of those things, actually.” She laughs shortly, and the sound reminds you of wind-chimes and court jesters. Sweet but silly.

A grin splits your face. “And how's the shop? How's business?” you ask.

Jane's eyes are shining. Her joke shop is her livelihood, and every moment she spends rambling about it, the brighter her eyes gleam, the wider her smile becomes. “Booming! You wouldn't _believe_ the people I've served. So many rising comedians have stopped by! Who knew it would be such a success?”

You rest your cheek on your fist, grin softening to a small smile. “Proud of you.”

She laughs again. “What?

“I'm proud of you,” you repeat, leaning forward, closer. “It's weird, I know, but I'm proud. I mean, I basically watched you grow up...and you've come so far and...” You stop, laugh at yourself, and remove your shades with your free hand. “I just care so much about you, Jane, and that's really terrifying to me.”

Her expression is unreadable. Is the surprise on her face of the pleasant sort, or is it of unease? She says your name and nothing else. “Dirk...”

You wonder if you've taken things too far.

 

**_> 2003_ **  
**_( >1951)_ **

“When did he die, Jane?”

The sadness in her eyes is unparallelled. Your own can't compare.

She says, “A few months ago. Right after James was born. A heart...” Her voice falters. “...heart attack.”

Jane has surpassed you in age. She's forty-one, a mother, and now a widow. Nature has been kind to her. Life has not.

You haven't the slightest clue as to how to comfort her, so you sit in silence, shades absent, and attempt to communicate using only your eyes. She can't hold contact with you for too long.

It's painful for her. It's agonizing for you.

The quiet is too much to handle, but you endure it. Jane wants it; it comforts her better than you can.

She lays a hand on the screen of that mysterious television, rubbing it with affection and the barest hint of reverence. Her voice is shaky. “My husband always told me that I should get rid of this old thing. It doesn't even pick up any channels.”

She laughs, but it's a sad, bitter sound. A wail for attention bursts from another room. She stands without a word, exiting the room with grace and swiftness far beyond your level. She returns soon after with an infant nestled in her bosom.

You realize with a start that Jane loves that child more than anything—more than her late husband, more than her own life, and certainly more than you. She's a parent now, and you've seem to have forgotten that you're suppose to be one as well.

 

**_> 2003_ **  
**_( >1996)_ **

Her face is no longer smooth, her hair is no longer black, but her eyes are still that same haunting turquoise, the color untarnished by time.

It's the last time you see her before she dies. You have no way of knowing this, but something embedded at the very core of your soul, the pith of your heart, alerts you to this fact.

That and a radio broadcast you once heard.

( _“A meteor has crashed in Seattle this afternoon, reportedly destroying Prankster's Gambit, a joke shop, and tragically ending the life of its owner, Jane Egbert. ”_ )

She's eighty-six—just turned eighty-six today, in fact—and still as young as ever in your eyes. But it's her last day.

“I love you,” you tell her, unashamed.

And she smiles.

And you wrestle with your tearing eyes and your splintering heart.

James arrives to escort her to her business, taking her feeble arm into his and tipping his hat to you. Jane says a goodbye, unaware that it is her last, unaware that she is a dead woman walking.

Communication breaks off, the Skype window turning an ominous black. You pound your fist on the desk, narrowly avoiding the destruction of the keyboard.

“God _damn_ it!”

You feel so weak, so sick, so hurt. You wish you had gotten the chance to warn her. You wish that you _could_ warn her, wish that it was allowed and wouldn't permanently fuck up the future.

Time, like Death, is a cruel mistress and a strict guardian.

“Bro?”

The voice is small. A child's.

Dave is standing there behind you, watching you cautiously from behind his shades. There's something strangely comforting by his childish awkwardness, by the way he fidgets with his fingers, the way he stands pigeon-toed, the way his shoulders are slumped slightly by shyness.

You forget that he's just a kid sometimes. A kid like Jane once was.

Your insides are tangled and knotted, and you're afraid to speak lest your voice breaks.

But you swallow the lump in your throat, stand up, and toss a small smile at him. “'Sup, 'lil man? How 'bout we go get some ice cream?”

Dave doesn't argue, but you know that he's sensed something. He turns his face up towards you, mouth working as if he has something to say. He seems to think better of it and looks to the door instead.

Again, you feel comforted. Dave is trying to connect, and God knows you could stand to connect more to human beings.

So you take his hand in yours and lead him from the apartment down to the ice cream shop on the corner. You let him order whatever he wants. You talk to him. You tell him about your job and about mixing music. When he shows interest, you promise to buy him his own turntables.

And you start feeling a little bit better.

 

_**> 2008** _  
**_( >2421)_ **

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] at ??:?? --

TT: Hello.  
GG: Hello there. I'm sorry, but I don't think I know you?  
TT: You don't. I'm a friend of Roxy's. She's told me a lot about you.  
GG: Good things I hope!  
TT: All good things.  
TT: I'm Dirk.  
TT: In case you were wondering.  
GG: Does Mr. Dirk have a last name?  
TT: Oh.  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: Sorry.  
TT: It's Strider.  
GG: Pleased to meet you, Mr. Strider! My name is Jane Crocker. :B  
TT: Same here.  
TT: Hey, Jane?  
TT: Answer me something.  
GG: Yes, Mr. Strider?  
TT: Do you believe in reincarnation?

**Author's Note:**

> I'll go ahead and apologize. Sorry. I'm really sorry.
> 
> The characterization here? A blending of both counterparts, hence the skepticism of beta!Jane and beta!Dirk's social awkwardness.
> 
> Also, I really like the name "James" for Daddy Eggs. He seems like a James to me.
> 
> -Skype was released in August of 2003  
> -Betty Crocker became a name brand for General Mills in 1921  
> -"You sweet talker - Betty Crocker" was a jingle for Betty Crocker in the 80s
> 
> [My tumblr.](http://lovelettes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
